Page 71 of Malachi (Outsiders MC #1)

Malachi

We don’t find her. Not Alice. Or my sister. Not my brother. Not even a whisper.

The auction is over; the crowd scattered to the wind, and all we’ve got is the echo of footsteps and a bitter taste in our mouths. Hours of digging through shadows and half-truths, fake smiles and locked doors, all of it leading nowhere.

Now we’re back outside, standing beneath the Spanish moss and flickering gas lamps of Savannah’s historic streets. River Street’s alive with tourists and locals, couples laughing, buskers playing blues on corners, the sweet bite of pralines and beer clinging to the air.

But inside, I’m wrecked. Rage roils low in my gut, coiled and thrumming with the charge of a live wire beneath my skin.

Every laugh we pass feels like a slap, every streetlamp another ghost. I taste copper in the back of my throat, metallic and bitter.

The grief is quiet, but it seeps into everything, aching in my muscles, pressing behind my eyes, stretching through me with a weight I can’t shake.

Candace stands next to me, her hand brushing mine in search of something real.

The warmth of her skin against mine grounds me more than I want to admit.

She hasn’t said much since we left. Her shoulders are stiff, eyes sharp and distant.

I know that feeling. It’s the same one I carry scar-deep.

That numb alertness. That quiet storm. Grief hiding beneath grit.

Knox and Sloane walk a few feet ahead, their body language tight but steady. East and Nash trail just behind us, the four of them giving me space they know I won’t ask for. None of us found anything worth holding onto tonight. Yet none of us are ready to stop.

We make it to the riverfront, the scent of salt and old stone thick in my lungs. It’s loud here. People laugh, glasses clink, neon signs buzz over open doors, but all of it feels far away. I feel trapped behind glass, watching the world go on without us.

“Let’s grab something to eat,” Sloane says, glancing back at us. Her voice is calm, but there’s an edge of fatigue there. That quiet kind, the kind that settles deep in your bones. We nod. No one argues.

We slide into a booth at a corner restaurant tucked into one of the old brick buildings along the river. The walls are lined with old shipyard photos and lanterns flicker gently from iron sconces. The air smells of warm bread and whiskey. Our waitress comes by with menus, but I don’t read mine.

I stare out the window at the water, at the ghost of who I thought I’d find tonight.

Amelia. My little sister. The one Cornelius died trying to protect.

The one I haven’t seen since the night everything went to hell.

If Savannah’s where Alice runs her empire from, then Amelia’s here somewhere.

I can feel it. A splinter under the skin, buried but burning.

And my brother? He’s out there too. Donovan knew what happened to them.

He just didn’t live long enough to tell me everything.

A growl builds low in my throat before I shove it down.

I press my fist against the table edge. Hard.

The pain helps. Reminds me I’m still here.

Candace lays a hand on my thigh under the table. Her fingers press gently, grounding me.

The pressure of her touch punches the air from my lungs.

It’s not sexual. Not sweet. It’s real . The only thing that anchors me when everything else is slipping.

I look over and her eyes meet mine. No words.

Just understanding. She’s feeling it too.

That same hollow ache. The weight of every unanswered question.

She’s here with me. Still standing. Suddenly, that feels like a fucking miracle. I curl my fingers around hers. Hold on. For now, it has to be enough. But deep down, I know. I’m going to burn this city down to get them back.

Later that night, after we’ve parted ways with the others, Candace and I walk through Savannah’s historic district toward our Airbnb.

The night is thick with Southern heat, the kind that sinks into your clothes and lingers in the curve of your spine.

Mist curls at the edges of cobblestone streets, turning lamp posts into halos and shadows into specters.

The air tastes of jasmine and ghost stories. Sweet and strange.

Candace leans into me, her arm brushing mine with just enough pressure to spark something primal. I feel it in my bones, that subtle tension radiating off her. She’s uneasy, but won’t say it. Not yet.

“You good?” I ask, my voice pitched low.

She shrugs. “This place gives off serious haunted house vibes. I swear I just saw a man in a top hat vanish behind a bush.”

I smirk. “You sure it wasn’t East? He’d haunt a mansion just for the dramatic entrances.”

Candace snorts. “East would demand fog machines and a gothic soundtrack. That guy seems like the type who types angry letters to the editor from the afterlife.”

We turn down a quieter street. The mist thickens, rolling along the ground with a mind of its own. Shadows shift too easily. My instincts bristle. Just fog, I tell myself. Just fog.

Candace presses closer to my side, her body heat syncing with mine. The rhythm of her steps falls into mine, unspoken.

“I could protect you,” I murmur, letting my voice dip into something darker, filthier. “Throw myself between you and a vengeful literary ghost. Maybe get handsy just to distract him.”

She side-eyes me, lips twitching. “If I needed protection, I’d be with a golden retriever firefighter. Not a biker with a God complex.”

“Ouch.” I drag my hand over my heart. “You saying I’m not safe?”

She slows, eyes raking over me, biceps, jaw, the ink just visible beneath my collar. Her gaze lands on mine, sharp and charged. “I’m saying you’re dangerous.”

I lean in, brushing her ear with my breath. “And you want that.”

A shiver rolls through her. I feel it under my hand when I slide it around her waist and pull her into me, her chest brushing mine. Her scent hits me, warm skin, faint vanilla, a note of something sweet I can’t name. It lingers. Marks me.

“I ever tell you how good you look when you’re freaked out?” I murmur. “Gets me hard in the weirdest ways.”

She huffs out a laugh, half breath, half need. “Your idea of flirting is probably illegal in most states.”

“Good thing we’re in Georgia.” My hand slips lower, fingers splaying across her hip. “Where bad behavior is practically encouraged.”

“Keep talking that way and I’m going to forget why we’re walking.”

“That’s the point.” I tilt her chin up and kiss her, slowly, teasing, then deeper, rougher. Her mouth parts under mine and she melts into me, her hands fisting the front of my shirt.

Somewhere between the kiss and the groan she swallows down, I feel her start to tremble, not from fear. From need. But when we break, there’s a flicker in her eyes. Vulnerable. Raw. I want to ask. I want to stop and make sure she’s okay. But I don’t. Not yet.

“I’m gonna take my time with you tonight,” I whisper, fingers brushing the curve of her ass. “Strip you out of every piece of lace, kiss every inch until you’re begging, then fuck you so slow you’ll forget your name.”

Her breath catches. “Promise?” she whispers.

I grin against her mouth. “Scout’s honor.”

She doesn’t know it, but that vow? I mean it more than anything I’ve ever said.

We make it to the door of our Airbnb, a creaky old house tucked down a narrow lane with flickering porch lights and the scent of jasmine clinging to the steps. I fumble with the key, the lock ancient and stubborn.

Candace presses up behind me, her hands sliding under the hem of my shirt, fingers splaying across my abs, dragging lower. Her lips brush the back of my neck, a featherlight kiss that makes me growl.

The heat of her touch scorches straight through me, chasing out the night’s cold. Her hands shake slightly, but the need is real. Desperate. Grounding.

“Need help unlocking that door?” she whispers.

“Not if you want me to make it inside before I take you up against it.”

The lock finally gives. I shove the door open, grip Candace’s waist, and drag her inside. Her laughter is breathy and wicked.

The second the door clicks shut, I turn and pin her to it. Her mouth finds mine again, hot and hungry. My hands slide to her thighs, hiking her dress up, and she wraps her legs around my waist the way she was meant to.

Her nails dig into my shoulders, marks I’ll wear as scripture. She’s not holding back tonight. Neither am I. Clothes come off in a messy blur, lace tearing, buttons popping, breathless gasps swallowed between kisses that leave us drunk on each other.

Her hands claw at my back, nails digging in, while her moan vibrates against my mouth with the urgency of a plea she can’t contain. The sound rips through me, need threaded with something deeper. Hunger. Relief. She’s here. Choosing this. Choosing me.

I drag her with me toward the bedroom, barely breaking contact, her body tangled with mine, both of us afraid of what might crawl into the space between us if we let go.

The hallway blurs past in shadows and gasps until we crash through the door, and I spin her, pressing her against the cool wall of the bedroom.

“You remember what I said before we left?” I whisper against her ear, my hands roaming with reverence and fire, sliding the last of her dress from her skin. “About how I’d worship you until you were dripping and begging?”

She breathes my name, a sound I feel in my spine.

“I meant every fucking word.”

I drop to my knees in front of her, a worshiper starved for his altar, kissing a trail down her abdomen, hands parting her thighs as I anchor her to the wall.

My fingers hook into the waistband of her panties and drag them down slowly, letting them fall to the floor.

Her skin is hot beneath my palms, silk over muscle, trembling with anticipation.

My breath fans over her, and she shivers, the sound she makes somewhere between a gasp and a plea.